


The Enormous Task of Giving a Shit

by bisexualamy



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Post-Iron Man 3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, i see through you you're not calm cool or collected, trying to strike a delicate balance with the amount of shits he gives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualamy/pseuds/bisexualamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony grimaces.  He doesn’t like people making assumptions about him, and he <i>certainly</i> doesn’t like people spending his money frivolously without permission.  That’s his job.</p><p>“If this is going to be us sitting in silence for an hour a week, then you’re right,” Tony says.  His voice is combative, as if he wants the therapist to contradict him.  “Because that’s all I’m committing to.”</p><p>“This won’t work if you fight me,” the man says.  “I’m not here to be the bad guy.”</p><p>“No, you’re just here to reorder my thoughts and tell me what I’m feeling,” Tony says.  “Believe me, I’ve done the therapy gig before.  My thoughts are perfect the way they are without any interference from you, and the world economy, every major technology publication, and the profit margins of Stark Industries will back me up on that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Enormous Task of Giving a Shit

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite version of Tony Stark is the one that finally deals with all of his issues, so here I am helping to fill that void. Warnings for general mental health stuff, PTSD, and allusions to alcohol and some childhood neglect.

_ Session 1: _

“Pepper is making me come here.”

The man across from Tony Stark wears glasses, a button-up, and no tie.  He’s long since abandoned the idea of taking notes during sessions because he’s realized that it puts his patients more on edge than it helps him remember their words.  Instead, he watches as one of the most famous men in the world sinks uncomfortably into a worn-out couch, wringing his hands and refusing to make eye contact.

“You know, just so we’re clear about that.” 

“Who’s Pepper?” the man asks.

“My-” Tony swallows hard, “my girlfriend.”  Damn, that word feels weird in his mouth.  It feels too trivial for Pepper, and too official for anyone else.

“And she set up this appointment?”

“She sets up all my appointments,” Tony replies.  “Her, or JARVIS if it’s a standing commitment.  Maybe he was the one who updated my calendar-”  He cuts himself off when he realizes that he’s rambling, because he’s been told that he rambles when he’s nervous.  Except, he’s not nervous.  Why would he be?  He doesn’t need to see a shrink.  This shrink should be nervous about the amount of money he’s going to lose when Tony walks out that door and never comes back.

“Well, regardless of if it’s Pepper or JARVIS, they paid me a month in advance, so it looks as if you’re really committed to this.”

Tony grimaces.  He doesn’t like people making assumptions about him, and he  _ certainly _ doesn’t like people spending his money frivolously without permission.  That’s his job.

“If this is going to be us sitting in silence for an hour a week, then you’re right,” Tony says.  His voice is combative, as if he wants the therapist to contradict him.  “Because that’s all I’m committing to.”

“This won’t work if you fight me,” the man says.  “I’m not here to be the bad guy.”

“No, you’re just here to reorder my thoughts and tell me what I’m feeling,” Tony says.  “Believe me, I’ve done the therapy gig before.  My thoughts are perfect the way they are without any interference from you, and the world economy, every major technology publication, and the profit margins of Stark Industries will back me up on that.”

“I’m not arguing that you’re not brilliant,” the man says.  “I’d be a fool to fight you on that.  I don’t want to change what you think, or how you think.  I just want to help you to understand your thoughts and feelings.”  He pauses, but keeps looking at Tony, who’s still looking anywhere but in his eyes.  The therapist’s fingers itch for something to do besides drum aimlessly on his knee.

“There’s nothing here to analyze,” Tony says forcefully.

“Your girlfriend seems to think otherwise.”

This finally causes Tony to make eye contact.  His eyes shoot up, daring the man across from him to try and use Pepper to make his point a second time.

“That’s really none of your business.”

The man across from him changes tactics, folding his hands together before saying, “how did those other ‘gigs’ work out?  Were you just as resistant?”

“I was a ‘bad kid’ and my parents had money,” Tony says.  “I’m sure you can do the math.”  He pauses, his phone chiming.  “And if you can’t, here’s something a bit simpler for you: me minus one hour of wasted time equals a ticket out of here.  Here’s to hoping I can find something better to do with the rest of my day.”

 

_ Session 4: _

Tony watches as the second hand on his lock screen’s fake analog clock face ticks closer to marking the hour.  The man across from him sits comfortably in silence.  In Tony’s mind, it’s nothing short of a battle of wits.

Whether he wants to admit it or not, the man across from him is a strong opponent.  Tony has never met someone so unfazed by eye contact, and he’s worked with businessmen his whole life.  Every time Tony moves his gaze up to check if the man’s still staring, he sees old brown eyes looking calmly in his direction.

“Do you want something?” Tony asks, unable to stand what he perceives as a mounting level of tension.

The man shakes his head.  “That’s entirely up to you,” he says.

“What do you want me to say?” Tony asks, more forcefully this time.  The man across from him doesn’t respond.

“You know, I’m not coming back after today,” Tony says.  “My month is up, and even if Pepper gives you more money, I can afford to waste it.”

Still silence.

“I suppose this is great for you though, making money for the past three weeks by sitting quietly doing nothing.  Though, I guess that’s not very different from your actual job.”

Nothing.

“What are you looking to get out of me?” Tony demands, getting angrier.  “What are you waiting to hear?  About my childhood?  About my nightmares?  How about my relationship with my dead parents?”

Tony swallows, the silence louder to him that the shouts still reverberating in his skull.  He stares forward so long that the man’s face slides out of focus, and the room fades to black in the corners of his eyes.

“Do you know how to stop anxiety attacks?” he mutters finally.  

The second hand ticks twenty minutes past when Tony’s supposed to leave.

 

_ Session 6: _

“I had a another nightmare last night,” Tony says as he walks into his session, launching into his story with an air of casualness before he even sits down on the couch.  He’s adopted a sudden attitude of self-assuredness within the last two sessions, as if he could never be genuine in the presence of his own emotions.  “It had to do with that wormhole again, of being lost in space.”

He stops talking to prevent himself from getting worked up, because whether he wants to admit it or not, just describing the nightmare in detail could cause his breaths to turn short.

“Pepper shook me out of it,” he mumbles, his carefree tone disappearing.

“How often did you say you have these nightmares?” the man asks.

“Almost every night,” Tony admits.  “Usually I can manage my way through them, but sometimes I shout, or thrash around, or-”  _ cry,  _ he thinks, but doesn’t say it.  After a pause he continues.  “It wakes Pepper up, and then she’ll wake me, and then-” he stops again, looking down at shoes worth more than this man’s weekly paycheck.

The man leans a bit forward in his chair.

“Tony, nothing you say here leaves this room.  If you want, you can finish your sentences.”

Tony shakes his head, tapping out an irregular beat with his palms on his knees and trying to find a new way to phrase the words on the tip of his tongue.

He can’t figure it out before his phone chimes.

 

_ Session 9: _

“I was an asinine kid at MIT.  I didn’t get my rebellious high school years, after all, I was twelve when I got my diploma, and there’s so much more to enable stupidity at college anyway.  Twenty-two year olds shouldn’t give sixteen year olds as much whiskey as they want, but that’s what happened anyway.”

He rubs his dry eyes, and resists the urge to smack his gum as he takes a deliberate pause.

“The administration tried to expel me twice, and that was only over the stuff they knew about.  It’s really hard to hide explosions that cause hundreds of thousands in property damage, though.”

He thinks back to how angry his father was when they suspended him his sophomore year, how the idea of going home to what was going to be a shouting match was a much bigger deterrent than any classes he’d have to make up.

_ “What kind of kid has the same chance to succeed that you have?  Can you even comprehend the opportunities your mother and I have given you?  Are you even the least bit grateful?” _

He shakes the memory from his mind before he’s forced to analyze it.

“In the end, I think the scandal of expelling a Stark stopped them.  They’d rather say I was their graduate than let me give someone else publicity.  I guess the name’s good for something then, right?”

 

_ Session 13: _

Tony spends the whole session explaining how the Iron Man suits work in terms simple enough for the average high school student.  His eyes are more full of life than his therapist has ever noticed in the three months they’ve known each other.  After over twenty sheets of paper litter the floor, and Tony’s already racked up the bill for a double session, he starts down the path of talking without checking himself.

“A lot of people think that the ‘suit and I are one’ thing is a gimmick, but it’s not,” he says.  “I’m me when I’m Iron Man.  I’m the most me I’ve ever been.”  He stops, remembering that all of that should’ve been in past tense.  The suits are gone, and he’s supposed to be living a normal life now.

At this point, the man across from him doesn’t have to prompt Tony to get him to talk.  Tony’s smart enough to predict the question that isn’t asked.

“Pepper wanted them gone, and I don’t blame her.  They caused us nothing but trouble, in the end.  But they were my life.  Being Iron Man was my life.  I was making up for my past mistakes, I was helping people, but everyone took that away from me.  They weaponized the way I decided to put peace back into the world.”

He swallows the lump in his throat.

“She was worried about me.  Worried about the panic attacks and me forgetting to sleep and to eat, about the nightmares and the people who were all out to get me.  I was getting reckless.  I stopped caring about myself.  I stopped... feeling.”

He pauses as he shakes his head, lacing his fingers together so tightly that his knuckles start to turn white.

“That’s just it.  I felt nothing anymore.  Sometimes it read like a dull anger or excruciating boredom, but in reality there was nothing.  My emotions tank was running on empty and I didn’t even notice.  At first, the guilt of everything I’d done ate me alive, but by the end of it all I didn’t feel a single thing.”

He’s about to wonder aloud if that’s why his father grew so bitter when he stops himself.  It’s the third time he’s almost made the mistake of bringing the man up.

“But Pepper knew,” he says finally, when he’s sure his father is out of his mind, “what that trip to outer space did to me.  What my behavior meant.”

“Pepper’s very good to you,” the man says.

“She is,” Tony says quickly, before his therapist can have any doubts to the contrary, “and she’s brilliant.  She deserves Stark Industries ten times more than I ever did.  I’ve never met someone so incredible in my life.  I love her.”

He almost chokes on the ‘her,’ realizing the gravity of what he’s just said as the words are leaving his mouth.  He’s never told Pepper a quarter of the things he’s just told someone who was still an acquaintance at best.

“I love her,” he repeats, as if he doesn’t quite believe that he’s trying those words on for size.  The sound makes him smile.  “And for some ridiculous reason, I think she loves me too.”

 

_ Session 15: _

When the therapist finally says he has PTSD, it feels like a new beginning.  Not because no one’s ever tried to tell him that before, but because it’s the first time he’s actually listened.

 

_ Session 19: _

“Jarvis was the name of a person first,” Tony says, cutting off the middle of the story he was telling with his own interjection.  This stopped seeming strange weeks ago, as Tony’s therapist learned that his patient’s mind moves light years faster than his mouth.  “JARVIS is the name of the AI I built, but I named him after our family butler, Edwin Jarvis.”

“Sounds like you liked him a lot, then,” the man says.

“He had the stiffest upper lip of any person I’d ever met,” Tony says.  “British to the core.  He wouldn’t bat an eye at ten year old me building a small rocket out of scrap metal I stole from the garage, but the moment someone asked him to speak frankly he’d recoil.  Jarvis would sooner die than overstep his boundaries.”

Tony smiles, his earliest memory being Jarvis’ voice reading him a child’s science primer.

“He never did have kids of his own, but he had a wife.  She was lovely.  She used to bake me snacks after school.”  A pause.  “She sat next to me at his funeral.  My mother was on my left, and she was on my right.  I think I grabbed both of their hands when-”  _ when I felt like I was going to cry. _

In his mind’s eye he sees the small, private service Ana Jarvis insisted on.  She’d planned it together with Tony’s mother, refusing to let Maria handle anything on her own for the sake of her husband’s soul being at peace.  Tony would’ve bet his trust fund that if Maria Stark had planned his funeral by herself, Edwin Jarvis would’ve risen from the grave just to tell her that that was both unnecessary and highly inappropriate.  

His mind drifts to wondering what involvement his father, Jarvis’ oldest friend, had in the funeral plans, but stops short of bringing it up.

“It was the least I could do to name the AI that runs my life after him,” Tony mutters.  “I think he’d find that charming.”

 

_ Session 20: _

Tony opens the door to his therapist’s office, sits down, and smiles proudly.  “I haven’t had a nightmare this whole week,” he says, and it’s the first time both of them know he’s not lying.

 

_ Session 22: _

“I never asked your name,” Tony says suddenly, looking up at his therapist in disbelief.  He’s cut himself off in the middle of a story again, some long-winded retelling of one of his college memories.

“It’s never been relevant,” the man across from him says matter-of-factly.  “In this case, I wouldn’t consider that a  _ faux pas.” _  He smiles, knowing full well that not committing a social blunder is a rarity for his patient.

Tony pauses, feeling as though that’s still not good enough.

“What’s your name?” he insists.  “I’d really like to know.”

“Michael,” the man says, “but let’s get back to you, Tony.”

 

_ Session 25: _

“When do I graduate from this?” Tony asks after a few minutes of silence.

“Graduate?” Michael asks.  He’s knows what Tony’s getting at, but wants to hear him say it outright.

“I mean, when do I get to leave… these sessions.”

The man across from him feels tempted to point out that people who can’t even say the word “therapy” certainly aren’t through with it, but instead he says, “you can walk out that door and never come back whenever you want.  You know that.”

“Yes, but that wouldn’t feel right,” Tony says.  “That would feel unfinished.”   _ That would feel like quitting. _

“If your time here feels unfinished, then that’s indication enough that you should keep coming back,” Michael says.

“Don’t try those mind games with me,” Tony says, the phrase well worn from his time in therapy.  It used to come with a much more hostility, but now Tony says it with a cocky air, as if he’s caught his therapist in a lie.  “I’ve been here over six months.  That’s definitely enough time for some progress.”

“Progress, sure,” Michael says, “but PTSD is a complicated disorder.  You can’t just solve it in six months.”

Tony breaks eye contact, a habit he’s learned indicates when he’s getting uncomfortable.  Just because he’s accepted the label of “PTSD” into his life didn’t mean that he likes it being brought up.  Something about anyone associating him with trauma made him sick to his stomach.

“Then why do I still feel this way?” Tony asks, gesturing to himself as if this explains his vague question.  “What are you waiting to hear from me?  What’s going cure me?”

“That’s a fundamentally simple way to look at-”

“If a problem seems too difficult to solve simply then you’re looking at it in the wrong way,” Tony counters.  “That, or you just don’t know enough about the problem yet.”

“That may be how you deal with machines,” his therapist says, “but people are more complicated.”

“People aren’t as complicated as everyone assumes they are!” Tony exclaims, his therapist’s words clearly striking a nerve.  “My old man used to complain about the same thing!  ‘People are nightmares.  Machines, now they’re something I can understand.’  But people aren’t big puzzles to decipher!  They don’t have complicated needs!  Like me, I wasn’t some scary unsolvable problem, some mystery he couldn’t figure out.  The only thing he couldn’t figure out was how to love me.”

Dead silence blankets the room as the full impact of what Tony just said crashes down on him.  Michael is staring straight back into his eyes, and Tony hates it.

“Is that what you wanted?” he asks, voice still close to the level of shouting.  “Were you waiting to hear about my dad?”

“If that’s a step towards helping you feeling better,” Michael says calmly.

“Nothing about my dad ever helps me feel better,” Tony replies bitterly.  “I was building engineering marvels at eight, I graduated MIT at seventeen, and I was never, ever good enough for him.  I was a genius, I was everything he could’ve possibly wanted out of a kid, and it wasn’t good enough.  I never pulled myself up by my bootstraps like he did.  I was never kissing his feet enough for him.  Did I get into some trouble?  Yeah.  Did I act like a brat sometimes?  Sure, but never enough to justify the level of disinterest he had in me.  It was like as soon as I was born, he realized he’d made a mistake, and spent all twenty-one years that he knew me pretending I never happened.”

Tony cuts himself off, blinking his eyes and swallowing his next words to prevent any tears from coming out.  His father didn’t have a place in this room, not when it had become such a safe place for him.

“Do you know how long I’ve known I’ve had PTSD?” Tony asks once he’s confident that he’s not going to cry.  “People give me credit for being smart, but never for being self-aware, and believe me, there’s no one I’ve been more forced to be aware of.”

He shakes his head and tightens his mouth, every muscle in his face showing how much he resents that fact.

“The nightmares didn’t start after New York; they just got worse.  The nightmares started in 2008, after Afghanistan.  It was all over the news, so I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.  Famous weapons manufacturer gets taken hostage by Afghan terrorists.  They told me I was there months, though I honestly can’t verify if that’s true, because I feel like I was there so damn long that time just stopped existing.

“When I got back, the first person I saw was Pepper, but one of the next people I saw was Obadiah Stane, my dad’s old business partner.  You know, second in command of Stark Industries and died a few months later.  Jarvis raised me, but he died while I was at MIT.  After that, Obie was more a father to me than my real one ever was.  He made me feel like I meant something when my father didn’t have time to tell me that.  People still view the guy as a modern hero, and that’s my doing.  Because, the truth is, he was selling Stark technology to terrorists for a bigger profit margin, and paid to have me kidnapped so I’d be out of the way.  I feared for my life in a cave in Afghanistan for months, because the man who was supposed to be like my father sent me to my death.  My real father died when I was twenty-one, and he took my mother with him.  They cited faulty brakes, or some other excuse, but it was probably drunk driving, because by the time the nineties rolled around my father was more paranoid than a POW, and he drank to forget.

“So how am I not supposed to be fucked up after that?  Obie sold me out for money, and my father cared more about Stark Industries than he ever cared about me.  The only person that was more concerned with me than Stark Industries stock after they rescued me was Pepper.  I know I’m not a good guy.  I know I’ve screwed up a lot of things in my life, but I’ll be damned if someone can find a way to justify to me that I deserved all of that.”

He pauses, breathing heavily from raising his voice, and realizes that tears are more than just pricking in his eyes.  His mind tells him to wipe them away, but his gut refuses.  The man across from him just sits and stares.

“There’s the T in your PTSD,” Tony says finally, much more quietly than the rest of his speech.  “Is that what you wanted?”

“All I wanted was for you to continue to let me in,” Michael replies, “and you just did that.  I can’t guarantee you any kind of cure, but I’ll tell you what, Tony, you’re much closer to whatever a cure means now than when you walked in here a half hour ago, and you’re infinitely farther along than the person who refused to talk to me six months ago.”

Tony looks down and nods as a way to process this unexpected compliment.  When he glances up again, he swears he sees a small smile on his therapist’s face, and almost believes that he returns it.

Maybe it was coincidence, but maybe, in some small way, it was progress.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wednesday, 16:00](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9893546) by [Sgt_Pepperony94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sgt_Pepperony94/pseuds/Sgt_Pepperony94)




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